


The Way That We Rust & Breathe Again: A Fire Emblem: Three Houses Story

by panda_reads



Series: Seasonal Affections (Fire Emblem: Three Houses) [2]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd Needs a Hug, F/M, Female My Unit | Byleth, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Blue Lions Route Spoilers, Hearing Voices, Implied/Referenced Sex, Married Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/My Unit | Byleth, Post-Blue Lions Route (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Post-Time Skip, Post-Timeskip | War Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Sad Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd, Sexual Content, Sparring, Sparring as foreplay, Spoilers for Post-Timeskip | War Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), They Are Not Nice Voices
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-27
Updated: 2020-09-27
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:48:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26673181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/panda_reads/pseuds/panda_reads
Summary: The summer heat follows a failed assassination attempt. One cruel insult is enough to drive even the strongest minds to wonder, worry, and despair. An honest conversation, a bit of sparring, and a warm reunion remind a royal couple that, no matter how far apart their duties keep them, they will always have one another.Series: Seasonal Affections, Part 2: Summer
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/My Unit | Byleth
Series: Seasonal Affections (Fire Emblem: Three Houses) [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1921654
Comments: 4
Kudos: 73





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Timeline: Approx. 2 years post-war phase; three months after Part 1: Spring (direct sequel)
> 
> Title from: ‘Oats in the Water’ – Ben Howard (The Burgh Island – EP, 2012)

His mood turned dark sometime during the summer heat. He’d never liked heat, and this year seemed more oppressive than most. The days were unbearably humid, the air so thick it felt like an ever-present blanket that he could not escape. At night, he awoke, sweat-soaked, from dreams that he mercifully could not remember.

The heat wasn’t confined to the weather. He spent days listening to nobles complaining bitterly about harvest times and outputs, and commoners angrily insisting that their yields were more than sufficient for the coming winter. It was at least four months before they needed to worry about anything, so it was hardly worth the king’s time to engage with concerns about quantities.

One farmer and his landlord got into such an argument over returns that the King ordered them both to find a barrister, and come back when a third party could better establish their cases.

On and on it went, and his mood soured by the hour. Petty grudges, some legal concerns regarding former imperial houses, a bit of good news, particularly regarding trade relations with the former Leicester Alliance houses. There was a private meeting in his office with a spy who whispered a sighting of Claude von Reigen that the King decided to note, though he reminded the spy to not interfere, simply watch and report.

Then, there was a particularly obnoxious priest who hinted that the King really needed to think beyond the _now_ , and think about the _future_. He made an appointment and declaration each day, talked in circles, and refused to get to his point.

“What future is that?” the King inquired, tired after three days of this nonsense.

The priest straightened his pristine white robes. He wore no blue, in breach of decorum, and said, in a tone that suggested he was far more intelligent than the King, “The one that guarantees a reasonable rate of return.”

“And that means what, exactly?” The King had heard quite enough on rates of return. If the monk intended to lecture him about farming yields, he might react with a yawn.

The priest tutted. “Your Majesty is not that dense.”

The King looked at him sharply. “Excuse me?”

“I said—“

“I heard what you said.” The King glanced to his left, where his most loyal friend stood in the shadows, watching the exchange. Dedue regarded the priest coldly, waiting with the King for what would come next.

The priest cleared his throat. “Perhaps I misspoke.”

“Perhaps you did.”

“What I meant was, Your Majesty is a fine young man, in the prime of life, and has proven to be a competent, reasonable, practical, and good leader.”

Annoyed, the King said, “Flattery gets you nowhere with me, priest. Get to your point.”

“My point is that Your Majesty is in a… complicated situation. It is not easy, as one can imagine.”

“What situation is that?”

“The one involving your… separation.”

The King stared. “My what?”

The priest folded his hands. “Your separation. Your… distance.” The priest cleared his throat. “Your marriage, Your Majesty. I speak of your marriage.”

The King stood from his throne. He towered over the priest, and even dressed in summer clothes – black trousers, black shirt, a blue and black summer-weight cloak – he looked every bit the warrior he was. Peacetime had not softened him, and he descended the two steps to the floor, his footfalls firm. He looked at the priest, who stared into a singular pale blue eye with a defiance that set the King’s teeth on edge.

“Get to your point,” the King repeated, coldly.

“May I speak plainly?”

“If it gets you there faster.”

The priest stood straighter. “Your Majesty’s marriage is an issue,” he said flatly.

“And this is your business?”

“It is.”

“Explain quickly.” The King heard an edge in his own voice.

“Your Majesty took a wife that he should not have taken,” the priest said, now clearly irritated with the King, which, under other circumstances, and in less miserable weather conditions, the King might have found amusing. “The Church requires a committed leader, and the state another. It is not in the state’s interest—“

“And you know the state’s interest?”

“I consider myself an expert in politics and religion, Your Majesty.”

So many did. The King’s left hand flexed, his fingers twitching as he resisted the urge to make a fist. “Continue.”

The priest straightened his spine. “The state and Church are chosen by radically different entities. Your Majesty rules at the whim of the people. Her Grace is chosen by the goddess. Such unions ought to be avoided, as Her Grace is the goddess’s representative. To have a mortal holding her attention above the Church, above the goddess’s message, is a disaster in the making. We have already seen it.”

“Have you now?” The King’s single blue eye fixed on the priest.

“You had no right to claim the goddess’s chosen as your own. She was not a trophy for some mortal king, no matter how skilled, to seize as plunder. This is outrage of the highest degree, a violation of the Church. We saw this during Fhirdiad’s spring festival.” The priest’s eyes glittered with hate. “Did you truly believe that you would not be punished for your hubris?”

Lips set in a tense line, the King said nothing.

The priest spat, “Kings rise and fall, particularly kings like Your Majesty. However, when an assassin targets Your Majesty, and another falls victim instead, particularly the head of the Church, well, we of the faith could be forgiven for doubting Your Majesty’s intentions.”

Still, silence.

The priest raised his hands. “I speak only truth, Your Majesty. A union such as this is meant for nothing but heartbreak. It is lamentable, but the state would do the Church a favor by divesting, and—”

“Priest,” the King rumbled, “be very careful of what you say next.”

The priest sneered. “Another inch to the left, and you would not only have lost your queen, but the Church would lose its leader. Base mortal desires have no place when paired with the role of the goddess’s chosen.”

There it was.

“You waste my time,” the King said.

The priest opened his mouth to speak, but movement interrupted him. “His Majesty has other appointments,” Dedue said. “It is in your interest to leave, now. Do not return.”

The priest sputtered. “Who are you to—“

Dedue ignored him, and turned to the King. “You have another visitor, a friend.” He gestured, and an auburn-haired young woman beamed at the King, her dark robes soft and flowing around her.

The King’s smile was tense, but an old friend was a welcome friend. He was more than happy to dismiss the priest in favor of an audience with Annette.

Offended at the motion, the priest informed him that a true King would make decisions that benefitted others, not just his own personal desires.

Irritated, the King waved his hand at the priest. “You’ve had your say. Leave now.”

“Your Majesty, you have not fully heard me.”

“I have heard enough to know that I do not care. You’ve had three days of my time, and each day, you talk in circles. You are dismissed.” He turned to Annette, extended his hand in a formal greeting. “Annette, it’s good to see you.”

“Your Majesty,” the priest tried again. “Your Majesty, it is not right, it is not proper, to claim a bride who is above you in all things, and whose person is meant for—"

“You are _dismissed,_ ” the King said, the words growled and angry this time.

The priest, wounded pride and all, hissed loudly, “Her blood was on your hands! Who else but a monster holds the goddess’s chosen hostage? It was because of your hubris, and your pride, and it should have been you—”

Annette crowded his space. “Who _are_ you?” she demanded, magic crackling around her in a furious cloud. “How dare you say something like that? Apologize, now!”

The priest, flustered, stepped back. He looked to the King, his pride faded, replaced with a silent plea for rescue.

The King was not of a disposition to offer it. “You are dismissed,” he repeated, voice steady but furious, and the priest bowed, muttered a “Forgive me, Your Majesty,” before he backed out of the audience room.

Dedue stared after him. “I will see to it that he leaves,” he said.

The King stared after the departing priest, a glint of hate shining in his eye. “Please do.”

Angry tears in her eyes, Annette said, “That was cruel and unfair. He had no right to say those things. He wasn’t there. He doesn’t know what happened.”

Her support was welcome, but didn’t made him feel better.

Despite sharing a meal with Annette and Dedue – which, to Dedue’s great pride, she insisted was delicious – the King could not erase the casual cruelty of the priest’s remarks from his mind. Dinner could only distract him so much, no matter how pleasant the company. Annette talked, while he and Dedue listened, and her familiar chatter brought some calm to his already fraying nerves.

Later, the King lay in bed, alone, and stared at the ceiling. His hand wandered to the empty space beside him, cool sheets beneath his fingers, and he tried not to fixate on the priest’s words: _monster_ and it _should have been you_. If the priest’s primary intention had been to rattle him, it had worked a bit too well, since now he could only think of the failed attempt on both of their lives, only months ago. Her blood had stained his hands, when he’d withdrawn the knife from her back, after she’d saved his life. She had been his singular focus, his already limited vision narrowed only to her, to the blade he held in his hand, the blade that resembled too well another that had haunted him for years.

_The dead rise up through the living and punish us._

A former imperial noble, collecting a debt, avenging his beloved empire, had targeted them. It had been a foolish, attention-getting ruse, one that had scarred an otherwise celebratory time. He despised the man for the violence he’d inflicted, the horrors he’d forced upon them, and for the blood he’d spilled. He couldn’t quite bring himself to entirely hate the man, if only because the only death that day had been the imperial, himself, and there was no one to mourn him.

Had the queen died, then he might have hated, but, she lived, he lived, and what else was there? They lived. They were good at that, even when separated.

He ran his hands over his face, raked his fingers back through his hair. _I was a monster, once._

_What if we hadn’t found one another? If we hadn’t, I’d be dead, and she would be a ghost. If we hadn’t fought together, our country would be gone, and a tyrant would rule it. Our friends are gone, and some of them died at my hand. I was a monster. She saved my life, my soul, my sanity, and gave me everything._

_“Her blood was on your hands! Who else but a monster holds the goddess’ chosen hostage?”_

_My monster is a slumbering thing. It stirred today._

No.

He sat up, rubbed his face again. No, he would not allow that small man his victory.

_Her blood was on my hands._

He gasped softly, looked at his hands. Long fingers, calloused, palms scratched and scraped from training, stained crimson with her blood, and—

_No. No, not stained. Not anymore._

He inhaled.

_We survived together._

The chaotic workings of his mind, the heat, and the lack of sleep finally caught up with him. He sat on the edge of the bed, exhaled loudly in the dark, wondered at the madness flitting about in the back of his mind.

_A ride will help. A ride always helps, especially when she is not here._

If he could not sleep, he could at least ride. He dressed – black trousers, a clean shirt, a dark blue riding vest for the colder nights - and carried his boots until he reached the stable doors. No guards stopped him, therefore no one alerted Dedue of his leaving. Usually his friend joined him on these late-night rides, but the King had no desire for company, not in his current mood.

Safely in the stable, he pulled his boots on, buckled them. He saddled the beautiful black horse he called Eburos, walked the horse out of the stall, adjusted the bridle and reins. He mounted the saddle and rode out of Fhirdiad at a slow trot, into the pleasant, cool summer evening.

He chose a direction at random, hardly cared where he was going. He rode by moonlight until dawn crept over the hills and valleys. A long ride was the most welcome distraction he knew. It had been his saving grace during his long years alone, his own power, a horse, a direction, a goal in mind. Unfortunately, the farther he rode, the darker his thoughts drifted.

_She might have died, and then where would I be? What would I be without her? I would become nothing._

He rested the horse and himself by a cool stream, and waited out the heat of the day. He listened for guards or searchers, but none came anywhere near. Instead, long distance voices and whispers babbled nonsensical things in his ears, and he stripped his riding boots off, dangled his feet in the stream, hoped the water would ease him.

_I love her. She loves me._

_So long as I live, she will_ never _be among my ghosts._

By night, he and Eburos rode again, and he did not hear a single accusatory voice.

By dawn on the second day, he decided it was time to turn around. He stopped in a small village surrounded by enormous apple orchards. He wanted to give Eburos a few hours’ rest. Some simple bread and a cool glass of water were enough to refresh him, even when the tavern keeper offered a hearty meal and something stronger to drink close to mid-day. “No, thank you,” the King said, and offered a smile, which the tavern keeper mirrored. “I apologize, I’ve been riding all night. I missed the town marker. Could you tell me where I am?”

“You’re in Rowen, my lord,” the tavern keeper said. The apple orchards – with their strange purple fruits – should have been a giveaway. The King hadn’t identified himself, but his identify was hardly a secret, even dressed in sweaty riding clothes. There weren’t many one-eyed riders in Fódlan, and the tavern keeper decided ‘my lord’ was polite enough. “You’re about a half-day’s right from Garreg Mach.”

The guilt crept back when he realized just how far from Fhirdiad he was. _Two days. I wonder if they’re looking for me._

_They’re probably sending out hunters by now. I should have left a note for Dedue._

A voice at the back of his mind snapped: **_You left because a little priest – a pathetic little thing that you could crush beneath your boot without a second thought – insulted you with maybes. Instead of doing what you are best at, you fled. You are pathetic._**

Another voice crept in: ** _She might have died. You would have survived. Then what? What sort of animal allows all those he loves to die and then ceases his quest for vengeance?_**

**_If she fell, would you stay your hand from slaughtering half of Fódlan to bring her back?_ **

He took a slow breath, willed the voice away.

The tavern keeper said, “Are you all right, my lord?”

“Yes,” he said, though he felt a humming in his ears. “Yes, I’m fine. A half-day’s ride to the monastery, you said?”

“In this heat, I’d recommend taking it a bit slow, for the horse’s sake, and your own. Begging your pardon, my lord, but that vest is made more for fall than summer.”

The King said, “We’ve been riding by night.”

“Ah, makes sense. Well, you should know they close the gates by night,” the tavern keeper said. He rubbed his bearded chin thoughtfully. “We could send a hawk ahead for you, if you like, let them know to expect you.”

He nodded his thanks.

“Would you like us to announce anything special for you, my lord?”

“No, thank you.” He reached into his belt pouch for a few coins. “Thank you for your hospitality.”

He departed the tavern, found Eburos rested and happily crunching away on a purple apple. A little girl stood at the horse’s side, an enormous grin on her face as she fed him. She turned that dazzling smile on the King, and said, “Is this your horse?”

“He is,” the King said, and marveled at the brash innocence of children. “This is Eburos.”

The girl smiled wider. “Eburos,” she echoed. “What a beautiful name for a beautiful horse. Here, Eburos, would you like another apple?”

“He certainly would,” the King said, “but we have a long ride ahead of us. Do you mind if I take it for him? Then he can have a treat when we arrive at our destination?”

The girl beamed. “Really? Would you?”

He offered her his best smile. “Absolutely. He deserves a reward.”

The girl said, “Let me get you a few more apples. He’s such a good horse.” She darted down the dirt path, around a corner, and returned with three purple fruits. The King took them, tucked them into a saddlebag while she watched.

“Thank you,” he said, and gave her a theatrical bow.

She squealed with delight. He felt some of the darkness lift at that, and the voice currently muttering in his ear fell silent. _What monster_? he wondered. _She clearly doesn’t see one._

He slung his legs over Eburos’ saddle, patted the horse’s neck, and they trotted out of Rowen. He found the road markers, and followed the road south to Garreg Mach. A drizzling rain set in, cooling the summer heat, though no clouds darkened the sky, and the King gently urged the horse a bit faster.

* * *

The rain stopped an hour later, and it was nearly sunset when he arrived at the monastery gates, the sky twisting to multiple shades of blue, orange, and red. One of the great gates was closed. The other stood open, and a strong, boisterous knight greeted him with a booming, “Your Majesty! I wondered if it was you!”

“Did you now?”

“I did. We received a messenger hawk earlier, and it mentioned a one-eyed rider. Who else could you be?”

The King smiled upon seeing his old friend. He slowed Eburos to a stop, dismounted, and held the horse’s reins in one hand as he extended the other to Alois. The knight gave him a firm shake, and guided him to the stables. A stable boy took Eburos, promised to look after him, and the King instructed the boy to look in the saddle bags for the apples. “He deserves a treat after the ride we’ve had,” the King said.

The boy grinned, and said, “I’ll take good care of him. Would you like to see Isa while you’re here, Your Majesty?”

The King peered over the boy’s shoulder, beheld the beautiful grey mare standing in her own stall. She nuzzled Eburos’ face as the boy led him by, and the boy asked if he should share the apples. At a nod, the boy stabled Eburos, and petted his nose while the horse settled. The boy took up a knife and split an apple in half, fed the two horses.

The darkness fell farther and farther away from the King’s mind.

“So,” Alois said, hands on his hips, “what brings you here? And by yourself! I’m astounded, I tell you. I half expected you to bring an entire household.”

“No,” the King said, “just me.”

Alois regarded him, his face still smiling, but his shrewd eyes assessing every aspect of the King’s face. He lowered his voice, and said, familiarly, “Dimitri, I’m many things, but I’m not a fool. Her Grace is in the chapel. Shall we?”

The King – Dimitri; here, at Garreg Mach, he was Dimitri, always, the former student, the once-monster, the now-king, but, always and forever, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd – offered Alois a tired smile. “I would never call you a fool, my friend,” he said softly. “You’re one of the wisest men I know.”

“Am I now?” Alois grinned, posed dramatically, hands on his hips. “Do tell Seteth that, if you see him, won’t you? He’s threatened to make me a court jester at least twice in the past month.”

“I’m sure you gave him reason.”

Alois cocked his head. “Is that a joke? Well, will wonders never cease! You told a joke.”

Dimitri shrugged. “It wasn’t that funny.”

“No, no, it was a good effort. We must work on that.”

There was a horrific _creeeaaak_ behind them, followed by a thunderous _bang_ , and Dimitri whirled to face the source. Alois peered over his shoulder. “Ah, good, they’ve closed the gates.”

Something about those great gates being closed eased his residual discomfort. Garreg Mach’s walls were thick, meant to outlast any who might attack it, and the gates were one more shield between the residents and the world. Everyone within the walls was safe, truly, and there was no need to worry.

“Closing the gates is just the practical thing to do,” Alois said. “And it’s not as though we can’t take care of ourselves, if someone with ill-intent gets in here. Don’t you worry about a thing, Your Majesty. So long as I’m around, Her Grace is safe and—"

Dimitri had stopped listening. So much for the discomfort being gone. It reared up, and a voice snarled at Dimitri’s ear: **_Do you hear that? Ill-intent. Predators? Rats? Vermin? They get in. They hurt, they tear, rip, shred, and what do the weak do when faced with those things?_**

 **_Do they target her? Do they attempt to tear her apart, like the imperial rat who got too close to you, the one who nearly killed you both, and her blood was on your hands, and you did_ ** **nothing _to stop it, and what will you do if one of those rats gets in here now?_**

 **_Her blood was on your hands, and you did_ ** **nothing** **_._ **

**_She saved your worthless life. Her blood was on your hands. You did nothing, and--_ **

Alois stared at him. “Goddess, Dimitri,” he murmured, his jovial nature erased in an instant, “sit down before you fall down.” He gently grasped the King’s shoulder, guided him to a nearby stone wall.

Dimitri hadn’t realized he was holding his breath. He pressed his back into the stone, exhaled, stared into the blisteringly crimson summer sky. Alois waited patiently, his expression grim, which did not suit him. After several moments, Dimitri said, his voice strained, “Alois, much as I enjoy your company, I would very much like to see Her Grace, now.”

Alois thought for a moment. “Instead of the chapel, why don’t you make your way up the tower stairs and take that discreet little exit outside the war room. You remember where that is?”

“Yes.”

“Excellent. I’ll fetch Her Grace, and put a bug in Seteth’s ear about arranging some dinner for you two.”

“I’m not—“

“You are,” Alois corrected gently. “You are hungry, and you are clearly exhausted from your ride. We’ll get some food to you, give you some time to decompress, and I think you’ll be nearly your old self.” His eyes twinkled. “Well, close enough to. You know what I mean.”

Dimitri did. He stood away from the wall, offered Alois a small bow. “Thank you,” he said sincerely.

Alois waved a hand. “As if I could do anything else. Go, go, off with you.” He shooed Dimitri away as if he were still a student.

Dimitri welcomed the informality; he kept close to the walls as he entered the side door of Garreg Mach’s main tower, uncertain of his balance. He navigated the hallways quietly, made for the second staircase. He emerged to find the area empty, save two guards who stood alongside the audience room door. They ignored him.

He walked to the third-floor staircase, and ascended. At the top of the stairs, an enormous ginger cat greeted him with a remarkably deep and raspy _mrow_. The cat turned and sauntered towards the central room, the Archbishop’s chambers. Dimitri hesitated outside the door, but the cat peered over its shoulder, uttered a sound akin to a tiny roar, as if to say: _you great dunce, just cross the threshold._

So, he did.

He exhaled upon entering the room. It was spacious and cozy all at the same time. A desk and dresser sat against one wall, the large bed took up most of the space, covered in summer weight sheets and a thin blanket. The pillows were arranged neatly, two at the head of the bed; a third lay parallel to where the sleeper’s body would be. A small stack of books sat on the bedside table; an old cracked tea cup filled with small white flower petals sat beside it. The scent of earthy tea and almonds hung in the air, contrasted with the gentle perfume of dried carnations, hanging in the window.

There were three flowers: dark blue, yellow, now gold in its desiccated state, and one that was dark, dried blood red. He stared at that last flower for a moment, listened for a wrathful voice, but there was only the sound of the cat mewling for attention at his feet. It rubbed against his shin, and he crouched, stroked its head.

He almost didn’t hear the brush of cloth against stone. Small, familiar hands rested on his tense shoulders, and he sank to his knees, leaned his back against Her Grace’s legs. Her Grace, Archbishop Byleth Eisner Blaiddyd, known better to him as his one-time professor, his friend and teacher, and, to his eternal gratitude, the woman he called his beloved wife and queen.

“You need a bath,” she said, resting her chin on the top of his head. “You smell like a horse.”

He huffed a small laugh. “Hello to you, too, beloved.”

She pressed a kiss to his hair. “Hello, beloved.”

The cat yowled at the lack of attention. Dimitri resumed petting it. “You know,” Byleth said, draping her arms around his neck, addressing the cat, “your namesake wasn’t nearly so keen on complaining.”

“What is this ginger fiend’s name?”

“Jeralt.”

The cat uttered a bone-rattling purr as Dimitri scratched its chin. The sensation was powerful enough he felt the shake in his wrist bones. Dimitri laughed. “A suitable name.” Once the cat had been admired to its satisfaction, it trotted away, leapt into the windowsill beneath the flowers, where a cozy blanket awaited it. It turned around three times, stretched, and curled up.

Dimitri looked at the flowers. He sat on the stone floor, felt Byleth join him, leaning on his back. Her hands joined in front of his chest. “I suspect everyone in Fhirdiad is in a state, looking for me,” he admitted. “I didn’t leave a note.”

“We’ll send a hawk in the morning.”

He leaned his head back against her shoulder.

“Something’s wrong. What is it?”

“A fool said foolish things,” he said, “and I, also being a fool, listened.”

She kissed his cheek. “We must do something about that.”

“We must,” he admitted. “My fool head, being what it is.”

“It is a good thing I quite love your fool head,” she said, and gave him a gentle hug. He leaned into her embrace, closed his eye. She was warm, comfortable, her arms strong and safe around him. He felt nearly himself again.

“Seteth will arrange some food for us,” she said. “I saw him on my way up here. First, though, you need a bath. I’ll have hot water brought for the tub.”

“The bathhouse is fine,” he protested, blinking.

“It is,” she agreed, “but I haven’t seen you in three months.” She unfolded her arms, eased her way around to face him. She pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “I am very happy to see you, you rode a long way to get here, and I don’t want you out of my sight for longer than necessary.”

He drank in her face – her sun-kissed skin, her pale green eyes and hair. He reached out his hand, threaded his fingers through her hair, brushed his fingertips across her cheek. “I am very happy to see you,” he echoed. Her hands cupped his face; he could see her fingertips on his left side, felt them brush against the patch over his right eye. She leaned forward, kissed his brows, his cheeks, his mouth.

“I’ll call for water,” she said softly. “Wait here.”

* * *

It took ten large buckets to fill the tub with hot water, and a bit of magic to keep the water at the preferred temperature. When the servants departed, Byleth changed her clothes into a simple black dress, tied her long hair back into a tail. “Come on,” she said, and gently took Dimitri’s hand. She led him to the small room, closed the door. The room was steamy and warm, a comfortable temperature compared to what he’d felt in Fhirdiad. The old stone walls kept the castle cool in the summer heat.

She helped him out of his riding clothes, instructed him to get in the tub and not move a muscle. He obeyed, hissing at the heat against his skin. She pressed another kiss to his head. “I will be right back,” she assured him, and inched the door open far enough so she could slip out without causing him any embarrassment.

Despite his expectations, he started to relax. The heat penetrated skin, muscle, and bone, old scars and the newest one, just behind his right shoulder. She had a matching one behind her left shoulder, one he’d made worse by pulling the blade free, nearly costing himself the woman he loved, and nearly costing the Church—

**_You crushed the little red ant without a thought. Sliced his throat with a flick of your wrist. That little priest? You could have crushed him beneath your boot. Words, words, words, what are words to a blade?_ **

He sank down in the water to his chin, felt the heat wrap around his throat.

 **_An inch to the left, and she would be among us, screaming, screaming, screaming, begging for vengeance, just like we did, and you would_ ** **listen to her _…_**

“Stop it,” he mumbled. “Just. Stop.”

He closed his eye, opened it to her familiar hands untying the patch around his head. “Your Grace,” he said hoarsely, “it’s hardly proper for a lady of your station to see a man like me in this state.”

“Oh, hush,” Byleth said, gently easing the patch away from his face. He winced at the smell of sweat and, she was right, horse. Her fingers trailed over his neck and shoulders. “You’re a mess, beloved, what happened?”

“As I said, a fool said foolish things.”

“And you listened.”

“And I listened.” He sighed, leaned his head back. “I am an idiot.”

“You’re my idiot,” she said, kissed his forehead.

“I am,” he agreed.

“Let’s get you cleaned up,” she said, “then we can talk.” She sat beside the tub while he washed, and occasionally flicked her fingers at the water to maintain its temperature with a touch of fire magic. He dunked his head beneath the hot water several times, and scrubbed his skin until he was pink and gently scalded. He felt the three-month old scar burning at his back, and thought, _There’s another memory embedded in my flesh_.

When Dimitri felt more or less clean, he stood and stepped out of the water. Modesty was unnecessary with his wife in the room, and he did not resist gently pushing her into the stone wall to kiss her, his body still wet from the water. He held himself just away from her so he did not drench her clothes. When he pulled away, looked down into her face, she smiled at him, a fond, gentle expression, and stroked his cheek. “There you are,” Byleth whispered. “I wondered where my husband was a few minutes ago, but there you are, hiding behind all that grime and sadness.”

“What sadness?” he asked roughly. “I’m not sad.”

“Not anymore.”

She knew him so well.

He forced a smile.

She clucked her tongue. “I brought some fresh clothes for you. Get dressed. We’ll talk.”

He dried his skin, dressed in one of his own dark blue shirts and black trousers, and followed her to the terraced balcony. Three small gardens filled with flowers occupied this space – carnations in blue, yellow, and red – and he knelt by the blue garden, bowed his head briefly. She waited.

“How long will you plant these?” he asked.

“I’m not sure,” she admitted. “Until I feel they’re satisfied, I suppose.”

“Satisfied with what?”

“I don’t know that, either. I think it’s just habit, now.” Byleth folded her arms. “I wish I had a better answer for you.”

“I don’t know that I was looking for one.” Dimitri reached out, stroked his fingers against the soft blue petals. There were a thousand memories in that color, some he did not care to revisit, and some he wished he could relive. “If you planted white carnations, what would that mean?”

“White can be a few things: life, death, depending on your perspective, sometimes it’s love, sometimes it’s anger.” She knelt beside him. “If I plant white flowers, who am I planting them for?”

“The dead?”

“What if I planted them for the living?”

“Who is worth honoring more?”

“Are you asking in general or for yourself?”

He shook his head. “A question with a question, Your Grace. You’re taking your role seriously.” He reached out, took her hand. Glumly, he said, “If you planted a flower for every life I’ve taken, it would take much more space than you have here, in the greenhouse, or in the entire monastery. You would need a field, a village, and a city to contain the flowers you’d need to plant.”

She squeezed his fingers. “I wouldn’t need all of that. The gardens up here would be enough.”

Dimitri shook his head. “Not for each one.” He stood, flexed his fingers. “No, not for each one.”

She rose, took his hands. “One day,” she said, “we’ll light candles for them. We’ll place them in lanterns and put them adrift on river. We’ll see them off, and your ghosts will go with them.”

“Do you think it’s that easy to be rid of a ghost?”

“Well,” she teased, “you’re still here, aren’t you?”

He pulled her into a tight hug, crushing her against his chest. She pulled her arms free, wrapped them around his neck. She rested her head, closed her eyes, and whispered, _“’What fools in love we are.’”_

“This fool is lucky to have you.”

She tangled her fingers in his hair. “You’re upset. Will you tell me why?”

He shook his head. “It’s an absurd thing to be upset about. A priest came to audiences. I don’t know his name; I didn’t care to ask. He had opinions, and I was an idiot, and listened.”

She frowned. “That isn’t all.”

“No, it isn’t.” He sighed. “He blamed me for placing you in danger.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Three months ago, at the spring festival.”

**_Her blood on your hands. You did nothing._ **

He blinked. The voice was like a blade in his ear. When he dared echo the priest’s question, his voice was so soft he barely recognized it: “Beloved, should it have been me?”

Her hands clasped at his face. “Dimitri, look at me,” she hissed. He did, saw her pale green eyes fierce and close. “Listen to me: It will _never_ be you,” she vowed. “I watched you die a half-dozen times that day. I saw our friends die. I would step in front of a blade for any of you if it meant you lived. Von Aufrech was going to kill you, and the only way I could stop him was to step in front of you. I would do it again.” Angry tears streaking down her cheeks. “I would do it again. It could never be you, beloved. Whatever that fool told you, he is wrong. I would never allow it to be you. Not when I could save you.”

Voice hoarse, he whispered, “Your blood was on my hands, and—”

“Hush,” she said, and pressed her finger to his lips.

“I—”

She embraced him. “For an instant, I was alone, without you.” She pulled away, clutched his face, her tears flowing freely. “I’ve already been alone in this world with you. I won’t be alone in this world without.”

He frowned. “I don’t understand.”

“You were here, but not,” she whispered. “I know what it’s like to be alone in this world where your body is here, but your soul is gone. That broke my heart. Having you gone for good would shatter me.”

She closed her eyes, tears sticking to her lashes. “I saw you die three months ago, over and over again. A part of me died every time I saw you fall, and no matter that I saved you, that I bent time to do so, I will carry that memory always.” She inhaled a watery breath. “Three months is a long time to mourn a death that did not happen, but, when I close my eyes, I still see it. Maybe I still haven’t reckoned with it.”

She peered into his face, horror filling her eyes. “Goddess, beloved, I didn’t think… goddess, what do you see?” Her voice trembled. “What horrible things do you hear?”

“I see you,” he murmured. “I see your blood on my hands. I hear—” His voice choked. “I don’t even know who they are. I hear them, their voices, their, their accusations, but, but it’s not like it was. There aren’t names or faces, just voices, loud, screeching voices.” He blinked. “You say you would do it again, but, I _have_ lived in a world where you were gone completely. I know what I am if you are not here.”

She gasped, covered her mouth.

Dimitri cupped her face in his hands. He stroked his thumb over her cheekbone. “I will never fall again, beloved, but I’ve been standing at the edge for three months, and I didn’t know. I’ve been there ever since, and until a few days ago, when that bastard showed up, I didn’t even realize.”

“Oh, my love.” Byleth hugged him tightly. “I should have stayed. We could have taken more time. I should have _stayed_ with you.”

They sank to the ground, embracing. He buried his face against her shoulder, silent tears shaking him apart. She held him, sobbed quietly, felt the three-month old scar on her back, wept for him, for herself, for three months of silence and separation.

“It will _never_ be you,” she managed through her tears. “I won’t allow it. Never again.” She hugged him tightly. “I’ll fight for you; I’ll fight alongside you. I’ll fight to protect you, even from yourself. I’ll do whatever I have to do, but I won’t lose you.”

“We’re stronger together,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “You are my soul; you are my life. I beg you, don’t _ever_ throw your life away for me again. I won’t accept that from Dedue, and I most certainly will not accept it from you. I’ve survived so much, but without you, I am _nothing_.” He cradled her face. “I would rather die beside you than be nothing without you.” He lifted her into his arms. He carried her back into the tower quarters. He kicked the door closed behind him.


	2. Chapter 2

Morning broke over the monastery and there was a distinct change in mood about the place. Whether it was the overcast sky, or the absence of the oppressive summer heat, there was an uplift to the place, an energy that seemed to draw out the better aspects of people’s attitudes and behaviors.

Alois noticed it just after sunrise, while he was training a squire. The squire was far more focused than usual, and had managed to land four strikes in a row. “There’s a lad,” Alois praised him as he blocked the squire’s sword strike. “Hmph. Good power in that. Again.”

The squire adjusted his stance, rotated his wrist. He grunted, brought the sword down in an overhand strike. Alois caught the training sword on his axe, and shoved. The squire side stepped, whirled around with what would have been a killing blow, pausing his strike beneath Alois’ chin. Alois applauded his quick reactions. “Well done!” he praised. “Well done, lad.”

The squire stepped back, an enormous grin on his face. “I beat you?”

“You beat me! Excellent form.” Alois clapped his hands. “Now, let’s change it up a bit. Grab that lance over there, and—oh! Your Grace? Your Majesty? Good morning.”

The squire stiffened, looked in the training hall doorway, gasped softly at the sight.

The archbishop wore black training clothes, her trousers tied above her knees, her black shirt fitted, allowing for free movement. Her hair was tied back in a long braid, sweeping her waist. The King wore similar clothes, though his trousers hung to his ankles. They were both barefoot. An unusual energy crackled between them, something that made Alois shoo the squire away.

“What can I do for you two?” Alois wanted to know.

Dimitri walked silently to the weapons wall, picked up a wooden training lance, gave it a few experimental twirls. Byleth joined him, selected a curved wooden sword. She stepped back, swung it twice, got a feel for its balance. When she decided it wasn’t quite what she wanted, she chose a second sword, which felt much better in her grip.

“Need a judge, then?” Alois inquired.

Dimitri’s smile gave the knight a brief pause. There was a flicker of darkness in it, a glimpse of the warrior lurking under his skin. Alois had seen that predatory beast in action a few times, and it never failed to unnerve him. Dimitri walked to one end of the training ground, and paced in slow lines, waiting.

He was certainly a bit unnerved now. Alois looked at Byleth, who met his gaze with a cool determination that reminded him of her father. Alois followed Byleth to the opposite side of the training floor, and murmured, “Are you sure about this?”

She gave her sword wrist a few rotations, swung the blade in a precise, beautiful arc.

That was all the answer he was getting. Well, then. Time to move on.

“Magic?” Alois asked. “Or are we sticking to the basics?”

“The basics,” Byleth said.

“Skill alone,” Dimitri said.

“Good, good,” Alois said. “Best two out of three?”

“Three out of five,” they said in unison.

Alois looked between them. “Very well, you two remember the rules: five rounds for each match, first fighter to get a strike wins the round, First fighter to win three rounds wins the entire match.”

Dimitri loosely held his lance in hand, his shoulders slouched, body relaxed. Byleth’s sword rested at her side, her feet spaced evenly apart, cool gaze fixed on him. Alois assessed the looks on their faces – no, no lovers’ quarrel here; simply two experienced warriors sizing each other up, gauging their skill. That these two happened to be lovers, well, Alois figured that would just make for a more interesting match. He’d seen them do this before, and was pleased to see that at least this time, they were on common ground with one another.

He stepped back, and clapped his hands. “In three… two… one… Begin!”

Dimitri lunged first, took two long strides forward, twisted his lance behind him, and skidded to a halt as Byleth raised her sword. She saw the feint in his movement, paused, lowered her blade slightly. She reversed her grip, held it in front of her sideways, and swept one of her feet through the sandy soil. She left a line in dirt, daring him to cross him.

He grunted, met her dare, and charged at her. He swept his lance up, thrust it forward with a flick of his wrist. She met it with her sword, knocked it away. He maintained his grip, stepped back, out of her reach. He shook his head, pushed his hair out of his good eye. He hadn’t bothered to tie his hair back; what was the purpose when he fought best this way. He lunged again; she knocked him away, ducked, slid past him, and thwacked his back with the flat of her sword.

“First point to Byleth,” Alois called.

Dimitri smiled.

Alois did not like that smile.

Byleth stared at her opponent, took three steps away from him.

Dimitri bowed, spread his arms wide, and dropped into a defensive stance. He waited.

Byleth feinted.

He did not move.

She ran at him, sword at her side, raised it up and over, brought it down towards him. He caught her blow on his lance, twisted the wooden blade to the side, trapped her arm, and flipped her onto her back. The tip of his lance poked her chest.

“Second point, Dimitri,” Alois said.

Dimitri grinned.

Alois _really_ did not like that smile.

Byleth rose to her feet, graceful, even as a few strands of hair escaped her braid. It was her turn to meet his attack. She waited for him.

He moved slowly, lazily twirling the lance in his hand. Each step was measured, careful, as he moved closer. She stood her ground, refused to back away.

When he attacked, all Alois saw was the lance coming down in a two-handed strike, Byleth caught it on the edge of her sword, shoved it away, twisted, caught a second blow, pivoted and twisted her sword, locking him in place. The tip of her sword poked into his side; the tip of his lance rested on her shoulder. They looked at Alois expectantly.

“A draw,” Alois said, uncertain who had had struck the first blow. “So, two points each; we are tied, after three rounds.” He found himself relaxing. “Round four. Go.”

They were faster this time, not waiting for the other. They went on the offensive – wooden weapons rhythmically _clack clack clacking_ as they met – each caught the other’s blows, stepped back, remained in an attack position, met the blow, until Dimitri got a lucky strike behind Byleth’s foot and flipped her onto her back again. He wore that same wolfish smile, his face spotted with sweat.

Alois called, “Three points to Dimitri, round four—”

Byleth gripped the lance in two hands, wrenched it with all her strength, and knocked Dmitri off balance. He landed on his backside, scrambled back, and she got her toe beneath her sword, flipped it up into her hand, and smacked the flat of the blade against his shoulder.

He barked a laugh. She smiled.

Alois sighed, “Three points to each, so this match is a draw.”

“Best three out of five,” Dimitri said.

“Yes, yes, I haven’t forgotten.” Alois shook his head. “You two really are something, you know. Take a minute break; I’ll be right back.”

Byleth handed the lance over. Dimitri took it, his fingers lingered over hers for a moment. He smiled; there was a light in his eye that hadn’t been there when they’d woken. “I needed this,” he admitted under his breath.

“Absolutely,” she agreed. She wiped her arm across her face. “When did we last spar like this?”

“Too long ago.” He thought for a moment. “I’m fairly certain that I was… not myself, when we last did this.”

“’Not yourself,’” she echoed. “You were half-insane.”

“I was _fully_ insane, thank you.” He gave her a lop-sided grin. “And you beat the hell out of me, anyway. And then we made—”

She pressed her hand against his mouth. “Hush.”

He kissed her palm.

She rolled her eyes.

“Well,” he said, his grin becoming self-satisfied. “I think I’m going to enjoy this.”

She grinned, mimicking him. “In that case, show me what you’ve got.”

“I intend to, but don’t you dare hold back on my account.”

“Dear husband, would I ever?”

“Dear wife, I know your tricks.” He leaned forward, pressed a quick kiss to her lips. “I expect no less of you,” he whispered.

“I’ll have to impress you,” she teased.

Alois returned, a pail of water and two cups in his hands. They separated quickly, while the jovial knight set the refreshments down. “You two are going to need this, I think. Here, get yourselves a drink, then round two.”

They did as he suggested, and resumed their spots.

“Three… two… one… begin!” Alois clapped his hands.

Byleth dropped her sword to her side, the tip dragging in the dirt. She picked up her pace, lunged at Dimitri, brought the sword up in an underhand grip. He met her blow with his lance, blocked it, tried to repeat his little trick of locking her arm, but she dropped to the ground, and swept his legs out from beneath him.

He toppled. She leapt into the air, brought the sword down. He was already moving, rolling out of her way. She landed, scrambled to her feet, and barely evaded his lance. She ducked out of his reach, and slapped the flat of her blade against his back.

He laughed, staggered away. “That was entirely luck!”

“You’re getting distracted.”

He turned, bowed theatrically. “But of course. It’s impossible not to when my opponent is beautiful and deadly at the same time.”

Byleth curtsied.

Dimitri grinned.

Alois clapped. “First point to Byleth.”

Dimitri mimicked Byleth’s trick, taking advantage of his height and longer limbs. He dropped, swept her feet out from under her, caught her in one arm, and pinned her to the ground. She gasped softly, their noses touching. “Didn’t get enough of me last night, eh?” she murmured.

“I’ll let you know if I ever have enough,” he rumbled.

“Second point, Dimitri.”

He got up, helped her stand. They resumed their spots. Three more rounds; Byleth won two of them, Dimitri, one. He sported a few scratches along his arms, and she felt a fine bruise spreading across her hip. She looked forward to showing him just what a bit of white magic could do when they were alone.

Alois announced, “And that’s it! Match one’s a tie, match two to Byleth. What do you think, Dimitri? You think you can beat her for match three?”

Dimitri just smiled.

Alois muttered, “I shouldn’t have asked.”

Byleth called to Dimitri: “Let’s change this up a bit. Make it more interesting.”

“Oh?”

She walked to the wall, selected a shorter sword. She hefted it, gripped it in her left hand. She flipped the other sword into her right, held it behind her.

Dimitri nodded his approval. “I do like a challenge.”

He went to the wall, selected a long sword. He gave it a few swings, tested it.

“How’s your sword arm these days, Dimitri?” Alois asked.

Dimitri grinned, twisted his wrist. “Wouldn’t you like to see?”

“Very well. In three… two… one… match three. Begin!”

Byleth’s height and speed served her well with two swords. She was fast, light on her feet, but Dimitri met each blow with his sword, deflected them faster than she expected. He’d been practicing. He was faster, stronger, and she was faster, still, but the first round ended with their swords pressed into the precise space between their throats and collarbones.

“Well, I’ll be… a tie, again!” Alois crowed.

A melancholic voice interrupted: “What is all this shouting?” Gilbert peered his head into the training grounds, observed the archbishop and the King with their swords, heaved the greatest sigh in the history of great sighs, and said, “Please do not kill each other. You are both needed.”

“Gilbert,” Dimitri assured him, “this is just a friendly bout between loving spouses.”

Gilbert stared at him with an expression that bridged incredulous and disapproving.

Byleth pushed her bangs out of her eyes. “I assure you, Gilbert, there is nothing happening here that you have reason to be concerned about.”

The elder knight blinked, and said, “I am looking at two of the finest warriors I know, with swords nearly at one another’s throats, and I am to believe there is nothing untoward happening here?”

Alois said, “Exercise is good for the body and soul, Gilbert. In their current obligations, Her Grace and His Majesty do not often have opportunity for sport.”

Gilbert looked at Dimitri, squinted. “When did you arrive, anyway? I haven’t seen Dedue or any of your retainers around the monastery.”

Dimitri looked at Byleth, who back away from him, rotating her wrist. “Alois!” she chirped. “Please announce round two.”

Dimitri bowed to Gilbert. “Apologies, Gilbert, but my wife and I are tied for one match, and I simply must win this one.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

“Round two, begin!” Alois barked.

“Your Majesty!” Gilbert raised his voice as Dimitri and Byleth clashed again, wood splinters flying from their weapons.

“Gilbert,” Dimitri panted as he evaded Byleth’s strikes, “old friend.”

_Evade._

“This.”

_Strike._

“Is really.”

_Dodge._

“Not – ouch!”

“Point two to Byleth!”

“You’re getting distracted, husba-! Agh!”

“Point three to Dimitri.”

“Your Majesty,” Gilbert tried again.

“Round three, begin!”

“Gilbert!” Byleth snapped, blocking Dimitri’s two-handed strike. “This is not the time!”

“I don’t have any retainers,” Dimitri managed as he cleaved the sword forward. “I rode here on my own. Leave it be, Gilbert. We are busy.”

“Quite busy,” Byleth added.

“Far too busy for worries.”

“No worries here.”

“Except for your footwork,” Dimitri taunted.

“My footwork is just fine, husband.”

“Is it, wife? You keep favoring your right foot.”

“Good thing you’re blind on your right side then.”

“How’s that?”

“Because you can’t see what I’m doing with my left foot.”

“How in the—” Dimitri dodged and rolled as she leapt at him. He caught her around the waist, spun her away, and extended his sword to poke her right arm. “Alois?”

“Ah, yes, that’s round three to Dimitri.”

Gilbert gawked.

Dimitri grinned, walked the perimeter of the training grounds. “Gilbert, old friend, we have some daring birds around here. Close your mouth or one will build a nest in it.”

“I cannot believe this,” Gilbert muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Alois, we are going to talk about this, this complete disregard for propriety and safety, and, and—”

“Hello, Gilbert, Alois,” said a new voice. “I have been looking for Her Grace all morning, and I—oh.”

“Good morning, Seteth,” Byleth said, bowing to her advisor.

Seteth looked from Byleth to Dimitri and back again. He shrugged, found a chair, and sat.

“You cannot be serious,” Gilbert sputtered.

“I wouldn’t want to see two skilled warriors in action?” Seteth sat back. “I suspect this will be an excellent learning opportunity. Send in a few of your younger knights. I expect they’ve never seen a display like this.”

“We do have two more rounds,” Alois said.

“Well, announce them already,” Seteth said. He bobbed his head to Byleth and Dimitri. “Your Grace, Your Majesty. Please. Continue.”

It was their turn to look a bit confused, but Dimitri took advantage when Alois called round four. He stepped towards Byleth, who caught his sword thrust between her two swords, twisted the weapon out of his hand and hurled it aside. Empty handed, he faced her, grinned, and dropped into a fighter’s crouch. Startled, she reacted too slowly, and he gripped one of her wrists, pulled her in as if to hug her, and pinned her arms in place so she could not strike him. He plucked the shorter sword from her hand and smacked her shoulder lightly with it. He kissed her cheek before releasing her.

“Round four, Dimitri!” Alois looked positively elated. “What a delightful morning.”

Gilbert groaned. “I cannot watch this.” He turned and lumbered away.

Seteth peered after him. “Really? This is fascinating. Well, Alois, what are you waiting for?”

“Round five, begin!”

Byleth was down to one weapon, and Dimitri had the shorter sword. He improvised with it in a way she hadn’t anticipated. He met her strike for strike, despite the shorter weapon, and when he got in close, she feinted, aimed for his leg, but swept the blade up at the last moment towards his chest. He stepped back, just out of her reach, caught the following blow against his forearm –

“Reckless idiot!” Byleth snarled at him. “If we were in a real fight, you’d’ve lost your arm!”

He swept past her, hooked his arm around her shoulder, and pulled her in to press his short sword against her throat. “Good thing we’re not in a real fight, then.”

“Idiot,” she spat.

“I’m your idiot,” he said, and unsubtly brushed his nose against her braid.

“And that’s the match to Dimitri!” Alois clapped his hands.

Seteth applauded politely. “Splendid.”

Dimitri and Byleth helped themselves to water, and Alois said, “Well, you’ve got your three rounds down. Ready for more?”

They looked at one another, and didn’t even wait for Alois to call round four.

An hour later, two dozen knights and their squires, a handful of clerics and priests, and quite a few of the monastery’s orphans, were scattered around the perimeter of the training hall, hooting and hollering, cheering on their chosen fighter. Even Gilbert, the pinnacle of quiet dignity, had returned, though he clearly disapproved of the entire spectacle. Seteth needled him gently that it was good to know that, if, goddess forbid, another war broke out, the country was in qualified hands to deal with it.

“This is childish,” Gilbert grumbled.

Seteth rolled his eyes.

“Match six is a draw!” Alois bellowed. “My friends, our fighters have been battling for six matches now, with two matches won apiece, and two ties between them. Our most recent match is a draw, which leaves us with one final match to determine the winner.” He gestured to Dimitri and Byleth, both doing their best not to lean on their weapons of choice.

Dimitri bore a multitude of scratches along his arms, and felt more than a few bruises growing on his legs, abdomen, and back. His right shoulder was a nearly purple mass of bruising, and his hair was heavy with sweat and a few streaks of blood. Byleth fared little better, with a long scratch along one of her forearms, weeping beads of blood, a thin scrape along her throat, and her own share of bruises beneath her clothes. Their feet were scraped, and bloody footprints marked their paths in the sand.

“For our final round,” Alois announced, “I leave it to the fighters: do you want to stick with training weapons, or make things more interesting? We have two of the most experienced warriors it has ever been my pleasure to train with, and fight alongside. His Majesty is remarkably skilled with the lance, while Her Grace is unmatched with the sword.” He clapped his hands. “I suggest, for the final round, a true test of skill: blunted steel lance and blades.”

They looked at one another, and the grins that split their faces told Alois all he needed to know.

One of the knights hooted his approval. A few others joined in.

Two squires darted forward to the training racks, selected blunted weapons for the fighters. The girl handling the swords eagerly presented them to Byleth, who gave her an affectionate kiss on the cheek, and traded her training weapons. The boy who handed Dimitri a lance seemed afraid to meet the King’s eye. Dimitri ruffled his hair, and the boy’s shyness melted away into a beaming smile. The squires scampered back to their patrons, giggling and clapping.

“Well,” Alois said, “that’s that! Match seven begins when you two are ready. The winner of this match is the winner of the entire engagement. Are you ready?”

“Ready,” Byleth said, as loudly as she could. Her throat was dry, her voice nearly gone.

“I’m ready,” Dimitry echoed, equally hoarse. His grin was wild, satisfied.

Alois beamed, pleased as could be. “In three… two… one, match seven, begin!” He stepped out of the ring, and the crowd hushed immediately.

Their weapons were heavier this time. Their movements were not quite as swift, but much more deliberate. They circled one another, preparing.

Byleth raised her shorter sword in front of her, twisted the long sword behind her back. She dragged her toes through the sand, formed a line, backed away from it. She bowed her head, her braid swaying in time with her movements.

Dimitri stepped over the line, swept the lance up in an underhanded strike. Byleth side-stepped, waited for him to strike again. He did, and she knocked the blade away. A spark erupted from the steel, and they pushed one another away.

Alois could see that the fighters were tiring.

A low murmur started among the knights.

That was their cue.

Byleth attacked first. She swept her rear blade forward, aimed at the lance haft. Dimitri twisted his body away, jabbed the butt of the lance towards her blade. The weapons connected, and Byleth tumbled back with a grunt. Dimitri vaulted for her, raised his lance, brought it down. She rolled out of the way at the last moment, locked her knee around his ankle, and jerked her leg away, knocked him off balance. He staggered, but did not fall.

She disentangled herself too late, and the lance head embedded in the dirt beside her.

“Round one, Dimitri!” Alois called.

Dimitri extended his hand, helped her up. She gave him a short nod, backed up again.

He attacked as soon as Alois called round two. Two swift strikes; she blocked both, and slashed at the lance haft, aiming between his hands. He avoided the first blow, caught the second hard enough to jostle him. He stepped back, extended his lance in a taunting manner. She met the gesture with her longsword, and waited for him to attack again.

He bolted forward, slashed with the lance. She ducked, spun around him, slapped his hip with the flat of her blade.

“Round two, Byleth!”

A handful of knights cheered.

Another group cheered louder when Dimitri won round three in two moves and a carefully aimed strike to Byleth’s upper back.

“Round three, Dimitri!”

Round four found them frozen in the center of the training ring, feet planted firmly, his lance braced against her dual blades, unsure who was attacking and who was blocking. She pushed with all of her strength, pinched the lance between her swords, twisted it, and sent him tumbling to the floor.

“Round four, Byleth!”

Alois clapped his hands louder than anyone. “All right, the next round determines the winner. Give it your all!”

The gathered crowd screamed and cheered.

Byleth and Dimitri gave them a show.

He attacked; she parried. She lunged, he stepped to the side, counter-attacked. She blocked, scrambled around him, taking advantage of her speed and size. He had power and height on his side, and used it to force her nearly to her knees with one blow that she battled to block. She briefly stopped resisting, which threw off his focus. She rolled away, toward his left side, and went to slap his hip again with the flat of her blade.

He caught her blow on his lance, and twisted his body. Her sword touched his side, and the butt of his lance was buried against her shoulder. Panting, they looked at one another, eyes sparkling with excitement, and then they looked at a gaping Alois for the final word.

“Another tie!”

The crowd roared.

“I would say we go another round,” Alois said, “but, goddess, I’m tired just looking at you two.”

Dimitri moved first. He flipped his lance, buried the blade in the sand. Byleth followed his lead, plunged her swords beside his weapon. She took his hand, and they gave the crowd a dual bow.

Seteth was on his feet, cheering along with the rest of the crows. Gilbert applauded politely, a grim look on his face. The knights, squires, priests and clerics, and children were ecstatic, cheering and hollering their approval.

Alois approached Dimitri and Byleth. “That,” he said, “was incredible. You two haven’t lost your touch one bit.”

They simply smiled.

“Well, it’s impossible to declare a winner. You were both phenomenal. Your Majesty, we might need you to visit more often. I think we have some knights who could stand a good challenge like that.” Alois beamed, hands on his hips. “Seven matches! Incredible.”

They accepted congratulations and words of encouragement, until Alois began crowd control. Seteth gently urged them out the side door. Under his breath, he said, “I suppose I should be grateful that you two are not actually fighting over something.”

They looked at one another, and gave him their most innocent expressions.

Seteth gave them a look that suggested he had seen such false innocence enough times in his life to not be fooled, even when the possessors of such expressions were adults. “Off with you two,” he said, mock-scolding them. “Your Grace, shall I have food sent to your quarters later? I imagine you’re both famished after that exchange.”

Dimitri looked at Byleth, and nodded vigorously. She laughed. “What he said.”

Seteth chuckled. “I’ll have something arranged.” He bowed his head and shooed them away.

Hands tangled together, they limped towards the tower, and the archbishop’s chambers.


	3. Chapter 3

They stood beside the hot bath in the tower, naked, examining their injuries. Byleth’s hands glowed with white magic, and she stroked her hands over Dimitri’s shoulder and back, the bruises slowly fading and receding beneath her touch. He gently rested his hands on her shoulders, swayed a bit on his newly healed feet. When his wounds were healed, he held her upright while she mended her few cuts and scrapes; the magic flowed down to her toes, and she let out an almighty sigh as she sagged against him.

He gently lifted her into the bath, joined her a moment later. It was just big enough for the two of them, and they luxuriated in the calming, heated waters. Byleth dunked her head under the water, scrubbed her hands through her hair, came up for air. Dimitri followed suit, hissed as the hot water cascaded over his scalp. When they both felt clean, they rested against one another in the water.

After a while, Dimitri murmured, “I’d wager they’ll get the hawk in Fhirdiad tomorrow morning.”

“Then that leaves us tonight,” Byleth told him.

He smiled, tipped her chin up to face him. “Thank you,” he murmured.

“For what?”

“For bringing me back.” He smiled. “Again.”

“Fighting with you to bring you back?” She smiled at him. “I’ve done it before. I would happily do it again.”

He nuzzled her throat. She laughed softly.

They sat in the bath for a long time, until aching muscles and healed injuries were soothed, and their skin was pink from the heat. They toweled dry, and then Dimitri lifted her into his arms, and carried her to the bedroom. He kicked the door closed with a gentle tap of his foot, and Byleth gestured, sealing the door with a ward spell.

An hour later, there was a gentle knock on the door, and a servant called, “Your Grace? I’ve left food and tea on the table. Please let us know if you need anything else.”

They reluctantly got out of bed, pulled on dressing gowns, and retrieved the trays. Fresh fruit, crusty bread, and a warm summer vegetable soup was just the refreshment they needed. The tea was earthy and hot, though Byleth promised she’d find some chamomile for them later. They finished their meal, placed the trays back outside the door.

Byleth cast another ward spell. Temporary clothes discarded, they returned to bed. For the rest of the day, they lay there, holding one another, resting, dozing in the aftermath of sparring, the warm bath, and the meal. When the evening bells resounded throughout the monastery, Byleth lifted her head, glanced at the bedroom window. She felt Dimitri’s arms tighten around her waist, and he mumbled, half-asleep, “Don’t go.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” she assured him. “I just heard the bells.” She stroked his face. “I don’t think we’ll be disturbed.”

He made an unintelligible noise, exhaustion catching up to him. She ran her fingers through his hair until she heard him breathing deeply and evenly. His left eye was closed, the scarred, blind right one also. She pressed her lips to his brow, and settled into his arms. She closed her eyes, and his steady, rhythmic breathing lulled her to sleep.

* * *

_He wakes alone in the palace at Fhirdiad. He rolls from the bed, steps into the hallway, is surprised to find no guards present. He scans the hall for any sign of life, but he is alone._

_He finds no guard outside of Byleth’s room, either. He knocks on the door, opens it when she does not answer. There is no one inside. Her things are there, but she is absent._

_He steps back, hurries through the palace, to Dedue’s room. He needs to find Dedue, Dedue will help him find Byleth, find the guards. If anyone can help him, Dedue can._

_Dedue’s room is empty. Much like Byleth’s, his things are there, but the man, himself, is nowhere to be found._

_His heart races in his chest, and he hurries down the staircases to the main floor. The cook, he’ll find the cook. The cook is always present. Except the kitchen is empty, too. There isn’t a servant, a guard, or living soul in sight. The palace at Fhirdiad is devoid of life._

_He leaves the palace, enters the courtyard, expects to see someone, anyone, to prove this isn’t some great joke played at his fragile expense. The courtyard is empty. There isn’t a bird in the sky, or a cat roaming the grounds. There is nothing alive in this place, save him._

_He is alone._

_He listens for the voices, the dead, the ghosts that haunted his steps for so long. Even now, they are a constant assurance that he is still alive, that he has a purpose. They are cruel, vicious, biting voices, their teeth and claws all the more dangerous for how they torment him, for what they drive him to do. They are horrible, he hates them, but they assure him that he is alive._

_He listens._

_They are silent._

_The voices are absent for the first time since he can remember. They are simply gone. There is silence in the space where they should be, where their familiar horror would calm or ground him to the reality he occupies. Their silence speaks volumes. Trembling, he raises his hands to cover his ears, a futile gesture in the absence of sound._

_He falls to his knees._

_He is completely, utterly, intolerably alone, for the first time in his life._

_He throws his head back and screams to fill the silence._

* * *

“Dimitri.”

The scream reverberated inside his head.

“Dimitri. Beloved. Please.”

His teeth ground together.

“Dimitri! Wake up!”

He gasped, the last of the scream escaping him in a strangled cry.

He looked up into the moonlit room, saw Byleth’s face, peering down at him.

_She is here._

He surged upright, wrapped his arms around her. She was nearly in his lap, her arms wrapped around his neck, holding him, her fingers trailing through his hair, murmuring soothing words, calming things. He shivered against her.

“Beloved. Please breathe. _Please_.”

He tried to remember how, felt his body fighting his efforts to control that most unconscious of actions.

“Dimitri.” Her voice was shaking but somehow still calm. “Dimitri, breathe. My love, I’m right here. I’m here with you. Please take a breath. Please.”

His chest heaved, and he coughed, dragging in a lungful of air. He felt her arms around him, her body, her familiar skin, smelled her familiar scent: earthy tea and almonds. He nearly sobbed with relief that she was _there._

Her fingers glided through his hair. “I’m here,” she whispered. “I’m here. Breathe.”

“Where?” he managed, his voice strangled.

“You’re at Garreg Mach, my love. You’ve been here just over a day.” She stroked his hair. “You’re safe. You’re with me.”

_Safe._

_Her blood on your hands. What’s safe? There is no safe, not from you._

He choked, pulled away from her, stared at his hands. They were clean. He looked at her, saw no blood, no injury, just her pale skin, laced with a mercenary’s scars, not nearly as damaged as his own. Trembling, he reached for her face, stroked his thumb across her cheekbone. “Beloved,” he whispered. “Byleth. Beloved.”

She nodded, rubbed her cheek against his palm. She pressed her hand to his. “Listen to me,” she murmured. “Listen to my voice. You are safe. You are with me. You were having a nightmare.”

_She is here._

He pulled her face close to his, kissed her like he might never kiss her again. She moaned softly against his lips, and he held her, his fingers tangling in her hair. Her arms draped around his neck, and he gently lowered her onto the bed. He trailed kisses along her jaw and throat, returned to her mouth, his mind consumed with nothing but _her._

“I need you,” he rasped, kissing her mouth. “I need _you_.”

She murmured, “You have me, beloved. You will always have me.”

He groaned, felt her body beneath him. Her legs parted, wrapped around his waist, and he sank into her, wrapped his arms around her back, holding her. He buried his face against her shoulder, so much taller than she. She was warm, soft, and strong, and she made him lose all sense of himself.

A voice purred in his ear: _She is water and you could drown in her._

He squeezed his eye shut against the voice, concentrated only on her body, her warmth around him. Her fingertips dug into his back, above old scars, anchoring him to her. He felt her breath against his face, soft exhalations of pleasure.

_She is air and you suffocate in her absence._

He cried out, held her tightly, focused on her warmth. She moaned, pulled him close, tightened her grip on him with her hands and legs. “Dimitri,” she whispered. “Beloved, I—”

_She is fire and you burn when you’re near her._

She whimpered, held him in place, her hips rocking to meet his. He grunted, wrapped his arms tighter around her, consumed by her warmth, the familiarity of her, the safety – _goddess, the_ sanity – she meant for him. He kissed her throat, her mouth, trapped her voice with his own, and they collapsed in a tangle of limbs and heaving breaths.

He did not want to separate from her, did not want to part from this place. He whispered her name, and cradled her against him. She panted softly, dragging her hands across his shoulders and through his hair. Moment by moment, he felt more human, more at ease, heard no voices, no taunts, no whispers.

_You need her like the air you breathe._

Except that one.

He murmured, “I fear, beloved, that you married a madman.”

She kissed him. “You are not mad,” she whispered. “You are simply you. I love you, madness or not. No matter what darkness reaches out for you, I will be there to protect you – all of you – from it.”

He cupped her face, studied her pale eyes.

_Tell her what she means to you. Tell her what she is to you._

_Byleth. Beloved. Wife. Queen. Warrior._

_Water. Fire. Air._

_Drown. Burn. Breathe._

_Tell her what she is to you._

“You are my soul,” he told her. “When you put yourself between that blade and me, I felt… I felt nothing except the need to kill him. To take his life like he would have taken both of ours. When I killed him, I felt nothing.” He blinked. “I told you, I know what I am without you, I know what it is like to live without you in this world. To lose you is to lose my soul.”

“Then you will not lose me, and I will not lose you. If I do, I will find you. I’ll move mountains to find you.” She kissed him. “If you are lost, I will never rest until I find you. I will fight a war for you,” she promised. “I will battle a thousand enemies to protect you. I will fight _you_ to protect you from yourself.”

He huffed a small laugh. “Three months apart, and what do we do? We talk about loss and fighting, and we beat the hell out of one another for the amusement of your knights.”

“They’ll never know it’s just a precursor to much more intimate matters.”

“Battle isn’t intimate?” he asked innocently.

She gave him a gentle headbutt. “You don’t fool me, husband.”

“Ah, but I can try, dear wife.” He rested his forehead against hers. “ _’What fools in love we are.’”_

“I would damn the stars and Hell for you,” she assured him.

“And I for you.” He smiled. “I really must ask Ashe to loan me that book.”

They settled onto the bed, under the sheets, holding tightly to one another.

“You’ll always save me, won’t you?” Dimitri murmured against her hair.

“As long as you need me to.” She kissed his jaw. “Forever, if need be.”

“Do you remember the goddess tower? How I wished for us to be together forever?”

She smiled. “I’ll never forget that. You know, though, forever is a long time.”

He threaded his fingers through her hair. “We already lost five years. I think we’ve earned the rest of our lives, and maybe a thousand days after that.”

She rested her head against his chest. “A thousand days, and five thousand after, and another five thousand, then another ten thousand more after that.”

He laughed. “That’s a lifetime, maybe two or three.”

“I can dream,” she said.

“Dream that kind of dream for me, beloved.” Dimitri kissed her forehead. “Dream of a thousand days, and more, so we can eventually live our lives side by side.”

“For you,” she promised, “forever.”

He hugged her tightly, and they slept. Neither of them dreamed.


	4. Chapter 4

The entourage that rode into Garreg Mach the following afternoon consisted of friends, which made Dimitri feel slightly better, until he met them in the entrance hall. An absolutely irate Felix tore into him – “You _stupid boar_!” he bellowed at Dimitri, who winced as his old friend’s voice echoed off of the walls. “What the hell were you even _thinking_ just riding off into the night like that! Do you have _any idea_ what we’ve been through the past three days looking for you?” – while Sylvain stood with his arms loosely folded, equal parts concerned for the King’s well-being and amused by Felix’s tantrum.

Dedue, for his part, kept a neutral expression, which made Dimitri feel all the guiltier. When Sylvain led a red-faced Felix out of the room – “The Archbishop and I are going to have a _chat_. Sending hawks and messages to not worry, when she should be booting his backside right back where it belongs. Where is she? And where’s my bloody sword?” – Dimitri looked at his closest friend, and said, quietly, “I’m sorry.”

Dedue stared at him for a long while, and finally said, “No matter the hour, I will always talk with you. When fools speak too loudly, it impacts us all.”

Dimitri rubbed the back of his neck. “He got under my skin. I thought I was stronger than that.” He glanced at Dedue, almost looking the other man in the eye. “I won’t let it happen again.”

“I do hope this impromptu visit with Her Grace left you feeling more like yourself.”

“We sparred,” Dimitri said absently. “It helped.”

“I see.”

Dimitri glanced at Dedue, who made no effort to hide his knowing smirk. “No, really,” Dimitri protested. “We sparred. Seven matches, and it ended in a tie.”

“I see. And how is Her Grace’s sword prowess these days?”

Dimitri glanced in the direction Felix and Sylvain had gone. He could hear distant shouting. “Well, given she and I went seven matches before Alois called it, we might have to rescue Felix.”

Dedue looked thoughtful. “On our ride here, he mentioned needing a challenge.”

“We should go rescue him,” Dimitri said. “Yes, we should definitely do that.”

* * *

Felix was already in fine form by the time they caught up to him in the archbishop’s offices. “You sent a bloody _bird_ instead of our bloody _king_ to Fhirdiad. Do you have _any idea_ what the past three days have been like?”

Byleth, arms folded, said, “I imagine you’ve been worried.”

“You ‘imagine,’” Felix echoed. “We had no idea where he went. It’s a good thing you’re both so bloody _predictable_.”

Dimitri was almost offended by that. “I am not—”

Felix held up a hand, silencing him. Dimitri couldn’t help laughing at the gesture. Felix looked at his own hand, sighed, and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I swear, by all that is holy and sane in this world, if you _ever_ do something like this again, I—”

“You’ll what?” Dimitri wanted to know.

Felix grunted. “I haven’t gotten that far,” he said. “You stupid boar. You had us worried sick. I hope you’re pleased with yourself.”

Dedue cleared his throat. “In His Majesty’s defense, I did explain what transpired before his departure.”

Sylvain chimed in: “He did tell us, Felix. I mean, you were pretty upset about it, too.”

Felix gave him a fierce glare. “Didn’t we agree that we wouldn’t talk about that?”

“Talk about what?” Byleth asked, curious.

“Nothing.”

“Felix tracked down the priest who mouthed off to His Majesty,” Sylvain said, folding his arms behind his head. “He scared the life out of the man, and made him swear he’d never step foot in the royal palace again without an escort and a signed letter authorizing him to do so.”

“A signed letter?” Dimitri frowned. “From who?”

“Her Grace, of course.” Sylvain’s eyes sparkled. “So that priest won’t ever bother you again, Your Majesty, don’t you worry.” He winked at Byleth. “Don’t you worry, either, Your Grace. We’ve got your backs.”

Byleth stared at Felix, and clasped her hands in front of her. “Felix Hugo Fraldarius, were you defending my honor?”

Felix turned an impressive shade of scarlet. “Absolutely not. I was simply reminding a petulant priest that he has no say in matters of church or state, and—”

Byleth marched over to him, stood on her toes, and kissed his cheek.

He turned even redder, and whispered, “The king’s a _very_ lucky bastard.”

“I know,” Dimitri said, and wrapped his arm around Byleth’s waist. He looked at Felix, Sylvain, and Dedue. “I caused you all a lot of trouble. Again. I am sorry.” He bowed his head. “This will never happen again. I promise you that.”

“Your impulsive decisions inevitably lead to apologies,” Felix snapped. “It’s becoming a habit.”

“We’ve talked,” Byleth assured him. “Thank you for dealing with the priest. I would have done it myself, but you stood up for us. I appreciate that.”

“As do I,” Dimitri said. He took Byleth’s hand. “You are our dearest friends. Thank you for coming after me, even if you were angry.”

“Oh, I am still angry, boar. We are going to have a long talk when we get back to Fhirdiad.” Felix sighed. “At least this time no blood was shed.”

The royal couple looked at him innocently.

Felix grumbled, and pressed his hands against his face. “So help me…”

“It was a simple sparring match,” Byleth said.

“You _sparred_ with the Archbishop?” Sylvain gawked.

“It was a _very_ good sparring match,” Dimitri said. “You would’ve been proud of us, Felix. It was considerably better than the training matches we used to have.”

Felix looked through his fingers. “Who won?”

“It was a tie,” they said in unison.

He groaned again. “So bloody _predictable_.”

Byleth laughed. “Are you saying you disapprove, Felix?”

Felix rolled his eyes. “Not so long as you’ve tamed the beast, Your Grace.”

Sylvain elbowed him. “Hey. Didn’t we talk about showing respect?”

“We did. However, I have endured three days of worry and frustration at this fool’s expense, and I am not going to let him hear the end of it.”

“I am right here,” Dimitri pointed out.

“So you are.” Felix heaved a great sigh. “I suppose, all things considered, there’s no harm done. You worried people, but, really, I should have suspected from the beginning that you’d come here.” He folded his arms. “You really are very predictable, Your Majesty. I don’t think you’ll ever surprise me.”

“I could try.”

“Please don’t,” Felix said, raising his hand. “My father had grey in his hair by the time he was forty, thanks to you. I don’t need the same. For the love of the goddess, or whatever they say, please don’t surprise me.”

Dedue cut in. “If I may, we are losing the light.”

“So we are.” Felix looked at Byleth. “I don’t suppose there are available rooms for old friends in this place?”

“There are,” she said, smiling warmly. “Though you’ll all have to join us for dinner, too.”

Felix nodded, then glared at Dimitri. “And don’t even think about riding out before us in the morning, Dimitri. I know your trail now, and that horse isn’t as subtle as he thinks he is.”

Dimitri shook his head, looked at Byleth. “I think he’s still angry,” he said.

“That’s all right,” she said. She lifted his hand, kissed his knuckles. “I’m not.”

He smiled. “That’s all that matters.”

* * *

Byleth woke before sunrise. Dimitri was still fast asleep, face relaxed, breathing evenly. She didn’t have the heart to wake him. She settled closer to him, rested her hand on his chest, fingers spread over his heart. She felt the rhythm, the pulse, knew her own would never beat, no matter what. She was fascinated by heartbeats, and his most of all.

 _You are my heart and my soul,_ she thought. _No matter what paths we walk now, someday, we will have our own. We will call our lives our own one day. I swear that._

She looked at her hand resting on his chest. Old scars scattered across his skin, a story only she and Dedue knew as well as Dimitri did. She thought about the scar on her back, the assassin’s dagger that she’d seen end his life, end their friend’s lives. Only through that divine power had she been able to undo that act, save them all, and ensure that they saw another day.

 _I would do it again._ She trailed her hand over his chest, found the scar beneath his collarbone, the assassin’s other gift. _I would do it all over again, if it kept you safe._

He stirred, blinked, looked at her, and closed his eye again. He smiled faintly, folded his arm around her shoulders. “There you are,” he mumbled, still half-sleep.

“Did I go somewhere?” she wondered.

“In my dream.” He yawned. “We were lost in a forest. We were fleeing something. I lost you. I could hear you, but I couldn’t see you.” He rubbed his nose against her hair. “It was just a dream.”

“I’m glad.”

“So am I.” He opened his eye again, glanced at the window. “They’ll want to leave just after first light.” He swallowed. “I will be fine.”

“So will I.”

“Are we lying to one another now?”

“I think we have to.”

He laughed softly. “What a pair we are.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Dimitri turned his head, kissed her. “I love you,” he murmured. “In all things, you are my stronger half, my better half, my partner. I am a lucky bastard, as our friend says.”

Byleth smiled. “He’s an ass sometimes, but he’s a good friend to have.”

“That he is.” He turned to face her. He stroked her cheek. “My family kept an estate in the far south, near a fishing village. Rodrigue handled the upkeep for the longest time. I’m not sure the state of the place, now, so I’ll have to ride there and investigate. Once I know, though, we should take a few days to ourselves there. The summer heat is a bit more tolerable near the sea, and in the winter, it’s just as peaceful.”

She nodded. “I would love that. We could use a little peace.”

“Then it’s settled. We’ll take some time for us.”

* * *

It was a grand exit from Garreg Mach, with church knights, clerics, and monks all gathered to see the royal entourage off. The stable boy brought Eburos out from his stall, handed his reins over to Dimitri. “He liked the apples,” the boy said, smiling. “He’s a great horse, Your Majesty.”

Dimitri patted the horse’s neck. “Yes, he is. Thank you for taking such good care of him.”

Felix rode up next to him. “No dawdling, boar, and no running off.”

“Think about who you’re talking to,” Dimitri said. “Like I could ever give you the slip.”

Felix sighed. “Lies.”

Dimitri laughed, and was rewarded by one of Felix’s small, amused smiles.

Sylvain and Dedue joined them. “Well, Your Majesty,” Sylvain said, “we’ve explored our old stomping grounds and they look pretty good.” He looked around. “Is Her Grace going to see us off?”

“Of course she is,” Byleth said, striding out of Garreg Mach’s entryway.

Dimitri’s breath caught. She wore her chosen attire as archbishop – a black dress, blue striped scarf, and a gold crown pinning her hair in place, a sapphire gleaming in the center. She was beautiful, and she carried herself with kindness and authority in equal measure. A few monks whispered excitedly when she walked by, and a young cleric fell in behind her. Byleth turned to the young woman, took her hands, said something that lit up the cleric’s face.

Her smile was warm, compassionate, understanding. She was the leader of the church, and the leader of these people. They clearly loved her.

 _I love her,_ Dimitri thought. _I love her so damned much._

He handed Eburos’ reins to the stable boy. “Would you mind watching Eburos for a few more minutes?”

The boy nodded, and petted the horse’s nose.

Dimitri walked over to her. “Your Grace,” he greeted her. “Good morning.”

“Good morning, Your Majesty,” she said. She bowed her head to him.

Hushed whispers sprang up around them as they stood before one another.

Byleth smiled at him, and whispered, “They want a show.”

“Well, then, shall we give them one?”

He bowed to her level, wrapped his arms around her, kissed her. She slipped her arms around his neck. There was warmth, passion, and love in that kiss; he felt it to his toes. He heard the murmurs among the crowd, couldn’t help feeling a bit pleased with the scandalous way his wife kissed him in front of all of these people.

Byleth broke the kiss first, and murmured, “Let’s see them _ever_ question our marriage again.”

“Something tells me they never will.” He smiled. “I love you,” he whispered. “Thank you for everything.”

“I’m always here for you, beloved,” she said softly. “No matter what happens, I am always here for _you_.”

“I would be lost without you.”

“I will always find you,” she promised him. “If I lose you, I’ll look for you. Even if it takes me forever, I will always find you.”

He kissed her again, gentler this time. “I will see you soon, beloved.”

She kept ahold of his hand as he walked away, only releasing his fingers when his arms finally reached their limit. She smiled, watching him mount Eburos. She heard Felix mutter, “You’re so bloody _predictable_.”

Dimitri laughed, and said, “Then predict _this_ ,” and gave Eburos a gentle kick, urging him into a trot as they rode out of the monastery grounds. Felix cursed and rode after him, but Byleth saw the grin on his face – it seemed he would get his challenge after all. Sylvain sighed heavily, and followed them.

Dedue paused briefly in front of Byleth. She smiled, reached for his hand. “Take care of him for me,” she requested. “You are my very good friend.”

“For you, Your Grace, anything.” He bowed. “Until next month, Byleth.”

“Until next month, Dedue.” She bobbed her head. “Now you’d better hurry or you’ll lose them.”

“Unlikely. Felix tires easily when riding, and Sylvain is more skilled.”

“Neither of them is as good as Dimitri.”

“True.” Dedue stroked his horse’s mane. “I, however, am almost as good.”

She laughed, and Dedue beamed. “Until next time,” he said.

“Until next time,” she agreed. She watched him ride after his companions, and didn’t stop staring after them until she could no longer see any trace of them on the road. She took a deep breath, and returned to her role, her duties.

 _I miss you already,_ she thought. _But I will always find you. Even in the darkest of nights and the worst of dreams, I will always find you. That, beloved, is a promise I will keep forever._

_Fin_


End file.
